Chapter Two
Ransom
The fence post had rotted clean through at the base.
I worked it back and forth, testing how deep the damage went, while afternoon sun beat down on my shoulders.
October in East Texas, and the heat still hadn't quit—sweat rolling down my spine, dust coating my throat, cicadas already warming up for their evening show.
The smell of creosote and horse sweat hung thick in the air.
"Need help with that?"
I glanced toward the porch where Dad sat in the rocker Mom had moved out here after his heart attack.
The oxygen tank beside him hissed softly—a sound I still wasn't used to hearing.
Grady Hollis had always been the strongest man I knew.
Bigger than life, tougher than boot leather, the kind of father who could fix anything and never showed weakness.
Now he looked small in that rocker. Diminished.
"I've got it." I yanked the post free and tossed it aside. "Whole section needs replacing. This fence line hasn't been maintained in at least two years."
"Been doing what I could." Dad's voice carried an edge of defensiveness. "Can't do much from a hospital bed."
I drove the new post harder than I needed to, the impact rattling up my arms. "I know, Dad. I'm not—" I stopped, gentled my tone. "I'm just saying I'm here now. I'll get it done."
Three days since I'd arrived in Midnight Springs.
Three days of seeing everything I should've noticed sooner—the peeling paint on the barn, the fence lines held together with baling wire and hope, the stack of medical bills on Mom's desk that made my stomach turn.
The ranch that had been in our family for four generations was barely holding on.
And I'd been gone. Chasing eight-second glory on bulls that wanted to kill me, sending money home but never enough, telling myself they were fine.
They weren't fine.
"Your mother's been after me to talk to you about selling.
" Dad's words came quiet, almost lost in the afternoon sounds—horses nickering in the pasture, the distant thrum of oil derricks, cicadas starting their evening song.
"Says we could move into town, get a small place.
Use the money to pay off the medical bills. "
I hammered the post until it stood straight and solid. "We're not selling."
"Son—"
"We're not." I moved to the next section, measuring the gap. "I've got savings from the circuit. Tournament winnings. It's enough to catch up on what's owed and start making improvements. Horse boarding rates alone could—"
"Ransom." Dad's tone stopped me. Not angry, just tired. "I appreciate what you're trying to do. But you've got your own life. The rodeo circuit. You can't just—"
"I'm staying." The words came out harder than I meant them to. I straightened, met his eyes. "For good this time, Dad."
His shoulders dropped an inch. The lines around his mouth softened. "Your mother will be glad to hear it."
"She already knows." Mom's voice came from behind me.
I turned to find her walking across the yard, still in her church clothes—floral dress, sensible shoes, her graying hair pinned back.
Marjorie Hollis had never been one to sit idle, even during the worst of Dad's recovery. "A mother knows these things."
She stopped beside me, laid one hand on my arm. Her touch was gentle, but her eyes were sharp. "You've got that look. The one you get when you've made up your mind about something."
"The staying look or the stubborn look?" I asked.
"Both." She smiled. "And speaking of staying—I volunteered you for something."
I knew that tone. "Mom—"
"The Annual Midnight Haunts Festival theater production.
Vivian Crawford—she's the director, goes to our church—was absolutely desperate.
They needed someone for the ghost cowboy role.
" She said it bright and cheerful, like she'd just told me she'd signed me up for a church potluck, not community theater.
I stared at her. "You volunteered me to be in a play?"
"A murder mystery production, actually. Vivian said it's Halloween-themed, so I'm sure it'll be fun." She was enjoying this too much. "She was thrilled when I mentioned you. Said you'd be perfect."
"I've never acted a day in my life."
"Oh, it's not much actual acting. You mostly just stand around looking menacing and dead. She said something about ghost makeup and a lot of lurking." Mom patted my arm. "Besides, it'll be good for you. Help you get back into the swing of things around town."
Get back into the swing of things. That was code for something, but I didn't know what. "When do I need to be there?"
"Tonight. Seven o'clock at the old opera house." She glanced at her watch. "Which means you should probably clean up. You smell like fence posts and horse sweat."
From the porch, Dad chuckled—the first real laugh I'd heard from him since I'd arrived. "She's got you there, son."
I started to argue, but Mom had that look—the one that meant the decision was already made and I'd just have to deal with it.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, a question kept surfacing. One I didn't want to ask but couldn't ignore.
Would Rainey be there?
She'd loved theater in high school. Drama club, school plays, community productions. She'd drag me to every show, and I'd sit in those uncomfortable seats just to see her light up on stage. She'd been magic then.
Still was, probably.
I'd thought about her every day for five years. Wondered if she'd moved on, found someone else, built a life that didn't include the memory of me. Part of me hoped she had. The selfish part hoped she hadn't.
"What's the play about?" I asked.
"Murder mystery set in an Old West saloon. You play the gunslinger who gets killed and comes back as a ghost to haunt people." Mom's eyes gleamed. "Rainey Bell is playing the lead. The saloon girl who loved your character and can't move on after your death."
There it was.
My lungs forgot how to work. "Rainey's in it."
"Mmm-hmm." Mom didn't even try to hide her smile now. "Vivian said they have wonderful chemistry in their scenes together. The spirit and his lost love. Very romantic."
I should've known. Mom had always adored Rainey. Used to hint—not so subtly—about grandchildren and Sunday dinners and wasn't it time I settled down with a good woman. Then I'd left town without explanation, and Mom had stopped asking questions. But the way she was looking at me now...
"You did this on purpose," I said.
"I volunteered you for a role in a community theater production. What you do with that opportunity is entirely up to you." She turned toward the house, then paused. "I always liked that girl, you know."
She headed inside, leaving me alone with Dad and a fence line that suddenly seemed a lot less important than it had five minutes ago.
I drove the last post into the ground without answering my own questions.
Because what could I say? That I'd left to help Aiden with something I'd promised never to talk about?
That I'd made my brother a vow—no matter what it cost me?
That by the time I could've reached out to Rainey, so much time had passed I didn't know how to bridge that gap?
That I'd been a coward?
THE MIDNIGHT SPRINGS Community Theater was the same as always—old, leaning slightly, wearing its age like a coat that didn't quite fit. I parked my truck in the gravel lot and sat there for a minute, hands on the wheel, trying to get my head straight.
My phone buzzed. Text from Aiden: How's it going back home?
I sent back: About what you'd expect.
Good luck, brother.
I pocketed the phone and headed inside.
The director met me in the lobby—a woman in her sixties with aggressively red hair and energy that filled a room.
"Ransom Hollis! Oh, your mother was right, you're perfect!
" She circled me like I was livestock at auction.
"That height, those shoulders, that brooding quality. Yes, yes, this will work beautifully."
"Ma'am—"
"Vivian, please. We're all artists here.
" She gestured toward the auditorium. "Let me explain the production.
Murder at Midnight Saloon—it's a murder mystery dinner play.
Very interactive and immersive. Your character, Silas Black, is an arrogant gunslinger who gets himself shot in the opening act.
Then you spend the rest of the show as a vengeful spirit, haunting the saloon and terrifying the guests. "
"I don't have much acting experience," I said, which felt like an understatement considering I had zero acting experience.
"Oh, don't worry about that. You have maybe two actual lines.
The rest is just standing in shadows looking menacing.
We'll cover you in white makeup, black around the eyes, maybe some stage blood.
You'll be magnificent." She patted my arm.
"The important thing is your presence. The way you move. That intensity."
I wasn't sure if I should be flattered she thought I'd make a good-looking ghost or offended she thought I was so perfect for playing dead.
"The role opposite you is Evangeline Vale, the saloon girl who was in love with Silas. She's devastated by his death, refuses to move on, and is haunted by his ghost." Vivian's eyes gleamed. "Rainey Bell is playing Evangeline. Do you know Rainey?"
Air stuck in my lungs. "We've met."
"Wonderful! Then you'll have that natural chemistry. The spirit and his lost love—it's the heart of the whole piece." She checked her watch. "The cast should be arriving shortly. We're just blocking the séance scene tonight. Very atmospheric—candles, shadows, the whole theatrical experience."
She led me into the theater, still talking about lighting cues and stage positions and the importance of "finding the character." I barely heard her. My attention had locked on the stage where someone moved in the half-light.
Rainey.